


An Arena on Dathomir, 20 BBY

by svartalfheimr



Series: The Scarlet Waves [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jedi Maul (Star Wars), Mind Control, Nightbrother Culture (Star Wars), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27453262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svartalfheimr/pseuds/svartalfheimr
Summary: Whereas Feral was born the color of cracked earth, his Reflection was born the color of the sun.Jedi!Maul AU
Relationships: Darth Maul/CT-7567 | Rex (implied), Feral & Darth Maul, Feral & Savage Opress
Series: The Scarlet Waves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001943
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36





	An Arena on Dathomir, 20 BBY

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same verse as A Beach on Murkhana, 19 BBY. It's best to read it after Chapter 19 because there are **major** spoilers in here!
> 
> If you don't want to read it but still want to try this one, it's going to be tricky but long story short—Savage became Palpatine's apprentice and got slashed in half by Nobes; Maul was given to the Jedi as a youngling and became a Knight and Feral was chosen by Ventress to become her assassin. Fun times!
> 
> (full list of trigger warnings in the end notes)

  
  
  
  


It happens on a clear day. 

The Nightsister comes into the village; the monsoon should be here already. When he was younger, the village used to dance and celebrate its arrival like the return of a long-lost brother. Feral is in his prime now. His horns stopped growing seven years ago and he hopes the markings he bears will be the last, even if there is still free space on his skin for when he is Mated. The monsoon arrives late now; each year, they wait for it a bit longer. The crops and their herds feel the impact of the dry season stretching. The younger ones do not remember the time when the monsoon meant the tears they shed were a result of euphoria; the rains almost flooding the village meant the next year would be fruitful—and Sisters would stop coming for the following months.

But the Dark has been growing—and with it their connection to the Ichor. Mother Talzin is now more powerful than ever and the younger brothers are capable of feats Feral never saw the Tribes’ Heads do when he was still a kitten. The Sisters come at all times now.

The sentinels alert them of the Sister’s arrival as soon as they see her. The kittens and youngs are ushered inside; only the Tribes’ Heads and their potential successors stay outdoors. Brother Viscus welcomes her as tradition dictates and brings them all in front of her. Feral stands on the second row even if he is the third oldest now, after Viscus and Rake. They suffered from a plague last year; what little medication they were given was reserved for the kittens. The older ones died quickly but, surprisingly, so did most of the Heads. Scourge Tyrrant was the first to die even though he was undoubtedly the strongest in the village. Tyrrant’s current Head, Bane, is still growing—his horns give him skullaches at night.

The Nightsister chooses Feral as long as four other Heads and one successor. It’s Talon. His hearts accelerate; if she picked the young then it’s not a Selection—Talon is not grown enough to be Mated. He will become a strong Nightbrother but he isn’t yet. “Stay close to me,” Feral whispers, hand subconsciously gripping his wrist, positioning the young behind him.

The Nightsister tells them she came to their village to take a champion; they will all pass through a series of tests from which only the strongest may survive. Feral doesn’t have blood brothers anymore, hasn’t for years, but he still has to take care of the kittens and youngs of his Tribe. They all do. Talon, besides him, dips his head in submission and Bane avoids her gaze, clenching his jaw. There, Feral feels the urge that grows in him every time a Sister chooses one of them—the silent, forbidden compulsion to kill the witch. He doesn’t act on it because he knows the consequences. His entire Tribe will pay the price of his insolence if he does. Clenching his fists to the point of almost drawing blood, Feral enters the arena with two goals—to survive and protect.

What he doesn’t have in strength like his brothers he has in speed; Brother Viscus saw it from the beginning. Feral is a Nightbrother from the Opress Tribe. It’s in his blood to be a warrior. He may not be big and strong like his most successful brothers but he has the agility and speed of the Sisters. He wonders, from time to time, if his Reflection would be like him or if he would be big and strong so they could complete each other. Feral does not think about him often, nor their older brother; he never knew them, after all. But there are some evenings, sometimes—he indulges himself and wonders.

The Head of Sear is the first to fall. From there, the Head of Tyrrant follows. When night comes, Rake and Scorch die at the Sister’s hand quickly, leaving Feral and Talon as the last ones standing. He can hear the Sister’s cruel laugh echoing throughout the arena, instilling fear in their minds. He knows this tactic, uses it himself sometimes when hunting—fearful creatures smell stronger but their taste is tainted by it. But the Nightsister does not hunt them for food, only for sport. It doesn’t matter if they die quivering with fear; it only adds to the game.

In the end, Feral has to stand in front of her and beg her to spare Talon. “Take me,” he commands, knowing how powerless he is against her will. But she listens.

When he climbs on her speeder bike, Talon is staring at him, Claw’s arms clenched tightly around him. Feral nods subtly, trying to convey with a gesture what he cannot with words. Brother Viscus holds his gaze until he disappears from view. He always does it, with every brother taken by a Sister.

Mother Talzin inspects him like she would a male before a Mating. For an instant, his muscles tense despite himself—he had hoped at first, foolishly, that the Sister chose him for something else. But why would she?

When Mother Talzin touches his forehead with a finger, Feral’s vision blurs. He falls asleep immediately.

  
  
  
  


_Look at yourselves in the water,_ Feral says at the two youngs in his arms. Talon is the first to get away, of course, and he runs to the pond and kneels before it. Claw follows behind, glancing at Feral, waiting for him to nod, and he joins his brother hastily. _What do you see?_ he asks them.

_Me,_ Talon replies instantly, grinning with all his teeth. Claw stays silent, scratching at his left temple. His horns have been hurting him these past few days, the growth spurt vicious on him. 

_Claw?_ Feral nudges. The young frowns, staring at the water.

_My reflection,_ he says, pointing at it. _This is me but it’s also not._

Feral crouches between them, curling his arms protectively around them, looking at his own reflection. _You are right,_ he tells him. _This is your reflection, just like your brother. You are a clan pair—you were born together; you grow up together but you are not the same._

The lesson is stopped as soon as Talon realizes throwing water at Claw is much more amusing than listening to Feral. He lets them play for a while. Yesterday, the Head of their Tribe was chosen by a Nightsister. It was not the first time but they all knew this would be the last—he is not coming back because he gave the Sisters three kittens but no witches.

_Brother Scourge told us you had a Reflection too,_ Talon says when they walk back to the village. Feral nods softly and he can feel Claw’s hand squeezing his.

_I used to,_ he confirms. _He died when we were still kittens._ Whereas Feral was born the color of cracked earth, his Reflection was born the color of the sun. He never had a name or, if he did, the elders never said and Brother Viscus refuses to speak about him. _We had an older brother by blood, too, but he was chosen by Mother Talzin when he was still young to become her warrior._

_Have you seen him since?_ Claw asks, already knowing the answer but still hoping for another. Feral tilts his head slightly in worry. He can’t keep thinking like this; it will only bring him pain. The sooner they understand their duties to the Sisters, the better it will be for them.

_No,_ he replies. _He’s dead now._

  
  
  


When Feral wakes up, his entire body aches. His horns hurt as much as they did when they were still growing; his bones scream and his flesh feels like it has been mended hastily. He wants to shout and growl but his throat stays closed up. He turns his head, sees the Sister and he is filled with hatred.

He grabs her by the throat and squeezes. His hand around her seems bigger than it should—his arm is heavier than it should. What have they done to him?

“Let me go,” the Sister repeats and Feral’s mind calms down instantly. The more words come out of her mouth and the more he feels himself slipping away. He doesn’t resist. 

Rage and hatred rise in him— _but not at her, never at her_ —and the weakling before him disgusts him. He kills it with vicious delight, lets his spine crack with a simple pressure around his neck. Only the strongest must survive.

Feral leaves Dathomir for the first time. He doesn’t know how he is supposed to feel about that. He stares at the ground, while the Sisters inject knowledge into him—how to fly a ship, how to use Republic credits, how to count his age in Coruscant years and many other things he never worried about.

He is presented to Count Dooku like a weapon to make use of; he calls him _my lord_ and _master_ but he always knows it’s not _her_ —no matter how much he wants to kill the male, he can’t because that would be betraying the Sister. 

  
  
  


Feral learns quickly that he wants to kill Dooku like he never wanted to kill a male ever before. The Human feeds his hatred, tells him to let it give him strength, to feed upon it. And Feral does.

  
  
  


He never felt so much power and pleasure—the _Force_ becomes a part of himself. Or perhaps it always was but Feral never noticed; it seems so natural to call upon it, to use it to fuel his strength and assist him in combat. His master gives him a new weapon, one not forged by the Sisters—a staff made of light, the red of it bright and scorching like the sun. The weapon is not one Feral is used to–staffs were never his preferred choice–and he cannot use it like he would one made of durasteel or wood; one simple graze could turn deadly or sever a limb. His master’s eyes shine when he ignites it. Feral slowly realizes that the sight is not appreciated because it is Dooku’s own doing but because it promises a potential locked within Feral that the male can turn to his advantage.

  
  


The dreams start as he begins his apprenticeship.

  
  


The first one is of a man—a Human, with light pink skin and striking eyes. There is a blade of green light in his hand and he is teaching him how to wield his own weapon. _Your eyes deceive you,_ the male says. _Let the Force guide you._

Feral loves the man. He doesn’t know his name nor who he is but he knows he loves him like he never loved anyone else. The closest one he can think of is Plexus, the former Head of his Tribe, the one who raised him and calmed him down every night he had nightmares about his missing Reflection.

Feral never speaks about the man to his master. During training, when he is struck yet again by Force lightning, he remembers the words uttered and lets rage fuel him. His master wants him to raise the pillars around them so the pillars raise with his hands, even if he does not touch them, because Feral’s rage and hatred are growing inside him and, with them, his power. But it is not enough; Count Dooku finds him pathetic. Feral hates him more and more with each second he spends with him and his wrath does not diminish when he is not with him.

He dreams of another man—still a Human, with red hair and strength in his eyes. _We have a duty to our respective peoples,_ the male tells him, his hand raising to brush his cheek. The gesture brings to the surface a feeling he is not used to. Feral has not seen many Humans but he is still certain this one is beautiful. _You will always be welcome here,_ the man whispers and Feral stares at the helmet in his hand–Mandalorian, the knowledge instilled in him provides. When he is dragged into a kiss, he only closes his eyes and lets it happen.

  
  


Feral never speaks about this man out loud nor what this dream woke in him. 

  
  


One day, the Count sends him on his own mission to Toydaria; two Jedi fight him and Feral kills the little king in his hurry. He hurls the lifeless body back to the ship and retreats to hyperspace with his prize. He already knows he failed and the price it will cost him.

Count Dooku strikes him with lightning again. _Beast,_ he calls him. Feral crawls to the door, trying to escape, knowing he will not survive his master’s wrath. He does not want to die. He is of age, now—he should be Mated soon–but he thinks he’s not prepared to die just yet.

The man with the blade of green light told him to trust the Force so Feral closes his eyes and hopes for salvation.

The door opens and a Sister comes in bathed in light. Her eyes never slide down to him; her gaze is fixed on his master. “That’s no way to treat your apprentice,” she says. The Count tells him to kill her to amend his mistakes and Feral gets back up, staring at her. She puts a finger on his forehead and suddenly he remembers—the Force shall free him but, most importantly, it will serve the Sister.

The two of them fight against Dooku but they never gain the advantage. Every time Feral goes for him, his former master strikes him with lightning. He tries to look at her, to make her understand that they cannot win, but she shouts at him and Dooku calls him _a failed apprentice._

Something breaks inside him. 

_Your eyes deceive you,_ the male with the green blade said in his dreams and he was right—Feral does not have to serve _her._ He does not have to serve any of them.

He yells in rage and clutches at the air; Dooku and Ventress rise with his hands and he throws them against the durasteel with all his might. He goes after them–he will kill them with the weapon the Count gave him and with the strength the Sister injected in him–but the cowards _escape._ The Jedi show up–them _again_ –and he makes quick work of them; he pushes the little Humans away from the exit and runs to the hangar. The droids attack _him,_ not the Jedi, and he knows—there is no way for Feral to win on his own. He has been betrayed by both of his masters and now the Jedi are after him. He shouts in rage, pushes everyone away from him and takes the ship Dooku gave him.

Feral sits on the pilot chair and has difficulty breathing. He’s been blasted at, beaten, struck by lightning—his ribs hurt with each breath he takes and he cannot feel half of his face. _We have a duty to our respective peoples,_ he remembers the red haired man saying in his dream. Feral has no duty to Ventress or Dooku but he has one to his Clan. He sets course for Dathomir.

When he lands, he goes straight to Mother Talzin. The Sisters watch him but never attack him. “You have come home to us,” Mother says and he falls down on the ground, bruised and battered, but her words soothe him. _You will always be welcome here,_ the red haired man said. Feral hurts with rage and anger. Mother helps him up, quietens the aches and he feels lost. 

“Who will teach me?” he asks, seeking her knowledge, and his hearts threaten to stop when she tells him he has a brother. For a short instant, he believes it—his Reflection, she can give the other half of his clan pair back to Feral. She shows him a brother, one in exile in the Outer Rim, but his skin is not the color of the sun. It is yellow—just like cracked earth, just like his own skin. It’s the older one. Her warrior.

Feral takes the ship to space and sets himself on a quest to find his older brother.

  
  
  


Days turn into weeks. He follows clues after clues, without coming any closer to his brother. The dreams plague him even more. He dreams about the village now, about his childhood, or sometimes about people he doesn’t know. Sometimes, he forgets things. How he arrived on this planet, on this market, or who the dead people around him are. What he only knows is that they are not his brother and this isn’t the place he is looking for.

One night, he dreams about a man, a Human again–why is it always Humans?–sitting beside him, staring at the wall in front of them. They’re in a ship, _their_ ship, he knows but he doesn’t know how he _knows,_ and the man says, _I’m not even close to baseline. I’m not command material._

Feral wakes up enraged. He doesn’t know who this man is; he doesn’t know that ship and he doesn’t even understand what _baseline_ and _command material_ mean. He gets up, going for the refresher and once again his horns hit the ceiling violently. He stares at his hands and yells.

What happened to his body? Why does he have so much trouble with spatial orientation? Why do his limbs feel so different?

Feral stares at himself in the mirror and wonders how long it’s been since his body changed. Why didn’t he notice earlier?

He keeps looking, going from planet to planet, never losing faith. His dreams are always the same; he doesn’t understand why. He keeps seeing strangers he loves, with whom he has history but doesn’t in reality. He wonders if they’re real. He wonders if they’d love him as much as he loves them.

One day, he lands on a planet and falls asleep without meaning to. Exhaustion takes over him and he falls down. He is hit with a vision of the day Ventress chose him as her champion. He sees the face of his brother, begging him to let him go, feels enraged by this _weakling_ and, when he breaks the young’s neck, he feels the bones crushing under his fist. Feral wakes up screaming. He killed Talon. He broke his brother’s neck with his bare hand and dropped him on the ground like dead meat.

Claw and Talon aren’t from the Opress Tribe but Feral was the brother who took care of them the most. No one told him to and no one tried to stop him, everyone silently assuming that Feral, having himself a Reflection, would be the one best suited to understand a clan pair, even if he lost his own half a long time ago. Now, Claw lost his because of him.

Feral gets out of the ship gasping, lost and fuelled by rage and fear. He ends up in a settlement, scaring everyone off, pushing people away. _Monster,_ they call him and the word does not enrage him anymore. The talisman does not shine. He fights against droids—police or other, he doesn’t know. He blacks out.

When he comes back to himself, the people around him are dead. The red blades growl in his hand. He runs away.

“Mother, what is happening to me?” he snarls. He flies away and enters hyperspace as soon as he can. The talisman does not shine. He yells and trashes the ship.

His rage grows. The longer it takes to find his brother, the more violent he becomes. He dreams about Talon every time he closes his eyes.

“Is this a clue, mother?” he asks every time the talisman shines. He never receives any answer.

Sometimes, he entertains the idea that this is all a dream. Feral is going to wake up in the village and Talon will still be alive.

_Do you think you’d get along?_ Claw asks him one day. He and his Reflection got once again into another fight; this time, Talon chipped one of his horns. They are too old now; it will stay like this forever. _If he was still alive. Would you get along?_

_I don’t know,_ Feral replies truthfully. Claw and Talon used to be very close when they were younger but, as they grow, their personalities change. These days, they do not get along. It can be temporary—or not. _I’d like to think we would._

Feral has a chipped horn now just like Talon. One of the Jedi broke it. He can’t stand the sight of it; he can’t stand the sight of all of them. They are so long. If the Nightbrothers could see them, they would know. Only one who loses his mind can grow horns like these. He tries not to dwell too much on it.

The longer the search for his brother stretches, the harder it becomes to avoid the gaping hole where his hearts lie. There’s something missing inside, something Feral used to have before the Sisters put their hands on him. He doesn’t know what it is or, more accurately, what it was—all he knows is that it’s missing and it left a hole inside him that he knows he will never be able to fill.

One day, he crashes on a planet. The ship is beyond repair but the talisman shines. He goes to the closest settlement and steals a speeder bike. He drives to the desert and stops when the light of the talisman flares.

Something whispers in his ear. It’s not the Force—it doesn’t feel like it. But it’s not _not_ it either. It’s intertwined with his connection to the galaxy but he can also feel the Ichor of the Sisters in it. “Is that you brother?” he asks in the middle of a crowded street. When did he arrive here? “Brother? Where are you?”

Feral closes his eyes. The sensation lingers. He never felt anything like it—the closest feeling he can think about is when he killed the little king. One of the Humans, the one with fiery hair, like a muted rendition of Dathomir’s sun–the one who clipped his horn like Talon’s–this one felt like this but not as strong. There’s a pang in Feral’s stomach, pulling him further into the little town; he crawls inside its belly, finds himself surrounded by looming towers transpiring poverty and he feels it again. There are people in one of the buildings, special ones that he needs to find. He doesn’t know why. He just knows.

The talisman never lights up.

He goes for the door, sensing the souls behind it; as soon as he enters, the men inside point blasters at him and shout. Feral stops thinking. He ignites the red blades, slashing through them without mercy—limbs drop on the ground without gore splattering on the walls because this weapon is vicious in its efficiency. There is a severed head rolling at his feet.

Someone shouts behind him. Feral freezes at the sound of his voice.

“Baseline,” he mutters, startling the little soldier. It’s the one from his dreams. Baseline raises his blaster, starts shooting. There’s a hole between Feral’s hearts, one he knows he will never be able to fill, and he watches fear twisting the face of his little soldier, senses the horror take control of his small limbs and Feral lets his mind slip away for a while. 

He hears the squishing sound of skin breaking and giving way to his horns, feels blood and guts splattering on his head and his throat closes up, stopping any scream from escape. His entire body yells in horror and he steps back, sees the impaled soldier sliding off the wall, blood seeping out of his mouth and his abdomen, his bulging eyes set on him and Feral instinctively grips his horns in fear and horror, sobbing. His hands slide around them, covered in things he does not want to feel or even think about.

Feral runs away. He can’t remember what happened afterwards.

From there on, he doesn’t only dream when he sleeps. He dreams all the time.

He sees Baseline again, in the bacta tank of their medbay; Feral sleeps beside him whenever he can. He doesn’t know his name. He doesn’t even know where this medbay is; all he knows is he is hurting because his little soldier is hurting as well.

One day, a dream becomes so vivid he loses control of his ship. He crashes into a jungle, the ship going up in flames, and he can’t stop grinning. The little soldier is better now; he jokes and touches and eats. It takes time but he is less plagued by what Feral did to him.

_I should be the one to teach you, vod’ika. Because this one’s a ten-percent teacher,_ his little soldier says to someone unseen, pointing to someone else he can’t see either. _And this one talks weird,_ he adds, jutting his chin out toward Feral. 

It occurs to him, while he is running away from the chaos he created in this spaceport, that the love he has for his little soldier is the same he had for Talon and Claw. In reality, he never even talked to Beseline—he doesn’t even know his real name. All the conversations he dreams about, all the moments he experiences, are not his own. He does not know _whose_ they are.

He leaves the spaceport with a stolen ship, flies away to the last destination punched in and looks at the blue hues of hyperspace for hours on end.

Feral dreams about the man with the green blade again. He is talking to a girl–a Pantoran, the knowledge instilled in him whispers–and while her eyes are fixed on the Human, his eyes are fixed on Feral. He takes her to a castle, the hood of his cloak set low on his face, and he asks her, _Who were you trying to find?_

_My father,_ she tells him. There’s something passing over his face; Feral senses surprise, affront, happiness then dread and he knows these aren’t his own emotions.

He wakes up in the middle of nowhere. The vastness of space frightens him; he never saw this much emptiness in his entire life. He misses the village fiercely.

_I don’t want to be Mated,_ Talon mutters one evening. He is touching the water with the tips of his fingers, creating small, insignificant waves on its surface. The Head of their Tribe was chosen this morning. If all goes well, he will come back in a couple of days. The brothers will leave him alone unless he asks for company, as they always do, and no one will ever ask him what happened or why he is not the same anymore.

_It is an honor,_ Feral tells him, his hand curling around the young’s horns without much thought. He tells him the same thing the brothers told him when he was Talon’s age and Talon will repeat the same thing to the brothers after him. _It is our duty to our Clan and it brings honor and pride to our Tribe._

Time passes. The search for his brother stretches.

He is in a nameless spaceport when he finally _senses_ a clue. He jumps into the ship with the red dust, as red as the sun of his home planet, and he compels the man to fly him back to where he came from. Lotho Minor is filled with garbage. No one of sound mind can live there.

For a single, specific instant, Feral looks at the monster in front of him and sees something else—a brother the color of their sun, skin marked by the pride of his own Tribe, eyes glowing the same golden hues as his, and he sees fear, sadness and despair in them, feels them echoing through his own soul and whispers a name he never heard before. 

Feral found his brother. His name was Savage Opress. Now he is not sure if what stands before him can still have a name. But Mother Talzin tricks it into following her with a glowing heart of Ichor, in the same way they do with kittens using glowing flies, and the monster crawls behind her and drops dead on the altar, its grotesque, lifeless limbs turning into two legs made of steel with talons and claws instead of feet.

Feral found his brother. His name is Savage Opress and he cares little about their planet, their Tribe, or even their kinship. There is only one name on his mind, one single idea—Kenobi, the Jedi with fiery hair who broke Feral’s horn so he can remember the brother he killed in cold blood every time he sees his reflection. Savage is strong, powerful and perfect in every sense of the way except for his individuality. He would have never survived as a Nightbrother. The Sister would have killed him before he even thought about going against them.

The Hunt for Kenobi begins. Savage has patience and wit; he does not listen to Feral’s ideas, deemed subpar and crude. It is just as well because Feral is more than content with following his ideas, even if sometimes anger takes control of him and he tries to best him. To no avail, of course, because his brother is stronger than any other Nightbrother can even dream to become.

The dreams change. He still sees his little soldier but, now, he also sees others like him. They all share the same face except for one—a Nightbrother. The first time he wakes up he almost screams because this brother has the color of their sun and his skin is marked with the pride of their Tribe.

But Savage is near and Feral knows, deep inside him, that he can never tell him what he dreams about, no matter how much he wants to. Because Savage’s horns aren’t as long as they were on Lotho Minor but Feral thinks they could be. 

His mind is both fascinating and terrifying. There are moments when Feral tries to create a stronger bond with the Ichor and the Force flowing between them but his brother severs it every time he tries. At first, he thinks it’s because he doesn’t want Feral as his brother or even as his apprentice. With time, he wonders if it’s because he doesn’t want Feral to see more than Savage is ready to show him.

He dreams about the one the color of their sun every time he closes his eyes now.

_Who are you?_ Feral asks. He sees the other’s eyes widen. He doesn’t react more than that at his words. _Brother, is that you?_

_What is your name, brother?_

_Where are you?_

_Can you hear me?_

He never gets any answers.

Today, Feral killed a Jedi the same way he hurt his little soldier. His arm aches but there’s nothing he can do about it because he doesn’t have it anymore. Kenobi took something from them, _again,_ in his hunger and his own monstrosity. The Jedi believe themselves to be good. They wouldn’t have cut his brother in half if they truly were.

It is the only time Savage calls him _brother_ and means it.

He dreams about the one the color of the sun again—he’s on their ship. Feral recognizes it because Baseline likes to work on the droids here rather than on the lower deck.

_Did you hear anyone else apart from Cody?_ a little soldier–but not _his_ –asks. He doesn’t hear Feral. He doesn’t seem to be able to see him either. His hair is the color of sand.

_Yes,_ the Nightbrother admits, even if he never replies to Feral. _I still do. I know perfectly well he’s not real._

Feral dreams about a brother who never acknowledges him and lives with one who will never be able to.

He does not like Vizsla. The little Mandalorian is cunning and will betray them as soon as he can. Savage doesn’t like him either. He never says it but it shows. Sometimes, Feral wonders if Savage can like anyone. He’s not sure he can. What his master did to him, Feral will never explicitly know but it does not stop him from hating the man with his entire being, even if he may never say it out loud.

“I am sorry, brother,” he says once again when he inevitably disappoints him. Savage always grimaces when he calls him _brother_ because he would prefer the title of _master_ but he is Feral’s brother and always will be.

He dreams of a temple. The little soldier with hair the color of sand is injured. The walls whisper soft, almost silent words in his ears that Feral doesn’t understand but they chill him to the core as much as the tongue of the Sisters does. _Run,_ he tells him but the little soldier doesn’t move. His eyes remain where his arms are, curled around the Nightbrother,fixed on his unconscious face. _Wake up,_ Feral growls and the brother gasps and opens his eyes. He looms over him, sees that the pupils do not follow his movements and whispers, _You need to leave, brother._

Savage’s power grows. They take control of several syndicates. When they go to see the Hutts, Feral feels anxious. When they fly to Tatooine, his nervousness is so strong Savage growls after him.

“ _What,_ ” he sneers, done with his apprentice’s mood shift. Feral says he’s sorry but doesn’t try to explain himself. He doesn’t know how to explain the fact that he doesn’t want to see Jabba again since he never saw him before. He doesn’t know how to explain that he’s afraid the Hutt will recognize him.

“Submit or suffer,” Savage tells Jabba when they take control of his palace. The Hutt agrees quickly. Feral stays silent because it is not his position to speak but he knows that sleemo is already planning their demise.

Despite his gained power, Savage grows more anxious. His Hunt becomes more pressing, an obsession that devours him but also gives him an escape from his own mind. Sometimes, Feral thinks Savage never truly left Lotho Minor.

He tries, one evening, to touch his brother’s horns, his hand slowly rising, explicitly showing his intent, and Savage doesn’t move. But as soon as he comes into contact with them, his brother growls and stalks away. He wonders if anyone ever touched them without intending to hurt him.

One night, Feral wakes up in a desert the color of the sun. There is a shadow waiting for him. _Come closer,_ they whisper and he does. They put their hands on him, fingers tracing the markings on his face and Feral’s eyes are frozen on their mask—a Mandalorian helmet, different from the ones Death Watch wear but the visor is unmistakable. Their touch screams with the Ichor inside him, burning and devouring his flesh, but he is frozen on the spot, his mouth closed and his throat unable to vibrate. Danger, the knowledge instilled in him whispers. Danger. Run.

_You are weak and unrefined,_ they whisper, their thumbs pressing hard on his cheekbones until they let go of his face with disgust. _No matter. Your mirror will guide you once you bring him to us._

The following day, Feral doesn’t talk. Savage never asks nor compels him to. He acts like he doesn’t notice. Feral knows better. His brother doesn’t ask because he doesn’t have the words and doesn’t know how to.

In the evening, he lies to him for the first time.

“Who is he?” Savage asks out of nowhere. His hand is clenched tightly into a fist. He is close to taking his own blade to strike him with it.

“Who are you talking about, brother?” he asks in return, playing the fool. It often works but not always.

“The one you keep dreaming about,” he growls. “Who is he?”

_Our brother,_ he wants to say but doesn’t. “Someone from our Tribe,” he replies instead. It’s not a lie. It’s not the truth either.

“These barbarians are of no use to us,” Savage says, ending the conversation. Feral stays silent.

A couple of days later, as he steps into his room, the landscape around him morphs into a desert of salt plunged into darkness, only lit up by small moons and distant stars. He sees ruins from afar and knows this is where he must go. He can feel the Nightbrother is in pain. He can feel he is lost and close to becoming afraid.

_Hello, brother,_ he says when he finally senses him. He has been swallowed up by debris, what Feral guesses is the temple he previously saw from the inside now in shattered ruins. He closes his eyes and in a matter of seconds he is lying beside him. The little soldier with hair the color of sand lies unconscious on his brother’s chest. _What’s your name?_ he asks again. He gets no response.

_My name is Feral,_ he tells him. _I was the Head of the Opress Tribe. I am… an apprentice, now._

The Nightbrother closes his eyes and lets his chin rest on top of the little soldier’s head. He doesn’t say anything. For a long moment, they stay there in silence. It occurs to him, after a while, that the brother is focusing on what stands above them; Feral can feel his light hold on the debris, the gentle lull and hum of the Force around them creating a protective sphere. How curious. When Feral uses the Force, it does not react the same way; it _obeys_ him. Here it almost feels like the Nightbrother _asks_ for its help rather than compels it to submit. So much potential locked yet so close, begging to be grasped. What a waste, Savage would think.

_I am one half of a clan pair. I was born the color of cracked earth,_ he says after a long time spent in silence. _I used to have a Reflection. He was born the color of the sun._ No reaction. _The elders told me he died when we were still young. I never knew him. I have no memories of my brother._

The first time Feral’s brother acknowledges him, he asks, _Why did you kill them?_

He watches the little soldier sleeping on his chest and replies, _I don’t know._

When he is back in his room, there is dust from the temple on the floor. He touches it; it colors his fingertips. His throat tightens. This is the first time he has proof what he sees isn’t entirely made up by his mind.

They take control of Mandalore. Savage kills the little Mandalorian in a fight to the death in accordance with these warriors’ tenet but not in accordance with the traditions of their Clan and Tribe. He puts a figure head in his stead and controls his new empire from the shadows. 

When they are alone and Savage forgets he is not on Lotho Minor anymore, Feral hears him muttering Kenobi’s name, again, and again, and again. Feral tries to touch his horns, to bring him back with him, and he sees the way his brother stays still, not directly refusing the touch, but every time he comes into contact with them Savage goes away with snarls and growls. They never talk about it. They keep trying but never succeed.

Feral dreams about the desert of salt once again. The Nightbrother is here but the little soldier isn’t. This time when Feral walks towards him, his eyes follow his movements.

_I can see you,_ he says and the confusion is loud in his words.

_Brother,_ Feral replies with a nod.

_Do you call all Dathomirians as such,_ he asks with a tilt of his head, _Or are we related?_

Feral smiles. The last time he did, Talon was still alive. He takes a step forward but stops walking when he sees his brother stiffening. His markings complete his own. He grew strong. They are the same height. _Were_ the same height. Feral is much taller now. 

_What does the Force tell you?_ he asks him. His brother blinks, his eyes roaming over his face.

_I do not understand,_ he says. _How can you feel so real?_

Feral chuckles. _Well, because I am._

Savage grows more and more powerful. With his newfound control comes dread. “Something is brewing,” he tells him one night. Feral can feel it as well.

_Where are we?_ his Reflection asks one morning. He looks around the room with curious eyes and it occurs to Feral that he actually sees where Feral is.

_Mandalore,_ he tells him. _It’s a domed village. City._

He touches the wall with his fingertips and blinks. _Is this where you live?_

_For now,_ he replies with a smile. _It’s bigger than your ship._

His Reflection stares at him for a long moment. _How do you know that?_

_I dream,_ he says. _I think I dream about your life. I saw a man with a green blade. He’s Human and he raised you. You love him._ When he feels his shock echoing between them, he blinks. _Who is he?_

_How do you know him?_ He takes a step forward. He doesn’t look tense but Feral knows he is. _Who else did you see?_

_The Mandalorian,_ he admits. _The one with red hair. The one who kissed you._

His Reflection flinches. For a moment, Feral doesn’t know what to say. He sees him straighten, putting his hands behind his back, and it’s funny because for a moment he looks like Savage when he wants to ignore something Feral said without him noticing. _It was a long time ago,_ his brother mutters.

Feral frowns. He circles him, like he would with a young passing through the trials for the first time. What happened to him? _Why are you afraid to love?_

Savage is ruthless and shows no compassion when they train. Everything he teaches him goes against what their Tribe stands for. He moulds Feral into a Sith warrior, makes him cunning, merciless, individualistic and self-centered. Savage tells him it is the way of the Sith. Feral sees it as a way to forced solitude and pain.

Some nights, he hears his brother working on his legs, trying to improve them or make them feel more like _his_ and he wants to go and help him, more than anything, but he knows Savage will never let him, just like he will never let him touch his horns.

His brother’s skin is covered by scars. It’s not surprising for a Nightbrother his age—what’s surprising is their nature. Some of them are similar to his own and he knows they come from a repeated use of Force lightning; they cross over and under, like constellations marring their markings, ugly and revulsing. Others are burns, cuts, and some are so old it takes a long stare for Feral to see them. The hatred he has for his brother’s former master surpasses any other emotions.

_You are a Jedi,_ he says one day when his Reflection is back. There’s no doubt in his mind. His half walks to stand beside him, looking at the sun setting on the horizon. Feral hates it. It’s small and it’s the wrong color.

_I am,_ his Reflection confirms. _I’m afraid we’re at opposite ends._

Feral chuckles. _I’m just glad you’re alive._

They share the same eyes. Contrary to Talon and Claw, their horns are different but he can see the similarities in them. Did his brother suffer from growing pains as well? Does he understand the markings he bears on his skin?

_You are not what I expected,_ his Reflection admits.

_Did you expect me to be a monster?_

His brother averts his gaze. _Yes,_ he mutters after a while. _I… should not. I do nonetheless._

_I am not the same,_ Feral tells him. _I cannot complete you anymore._

He doesn’t see him for an entire week. He doesn’t dream about anything else but the village. They’re mostly memories, twisted by his mind—when he runs away from Plexus with a stolen piece of fruit, his Reflection is running right next to him; when he passes the trials for the first time, Savage is there to congratulate him.

The more time passes, the more Feral becomes reacquainted with his own self. He is used to his new height now, to his new hands, his new strength, his lowered voice. He still hates his horns. He still doesn’t think he has what it takes to become a Sith—and he thinks Savage knows it too. They keep training anyway. 

He’s practising kata on his own when he ends up in the red desert again. The shadow isn’t here but his half is. He’s lying on the sand, unconscious. Feral’s hearts clench with fear and he runs to him. _Wake up, brother,_ he growls, shaking him. _Wake up._

Behind him, he hears the telltale growl of blades made of light. Instinctively, he curls around his Reflection but his training makes him call his staff to his hand and ignite it. He sees two blades—one of red light, just like the Count’s, the other a roaring purple. Death, the knowledge instilled in him provides. Danger. Run. 

Feral already knows he has no chance against them but he still puts himself in front of his brother and raises his staff.

_He is not yours to take,_ he snarls at the shadow, red blades growling with hunger in his hand. 

He never sees his brother back afterwards.

  
  
  


They summon Kenobi to Sundari, letting him think it is of his own volition. When Savage kills the little duchess, pleasure flares to the point of even affecting Feral. The Jedi sees her body dropping on the ground, life leaving her right in front of him, and they celebrate together, their bond vibrating with victory. 

Traitors raise arms against them. The fight begins. Neither Feral nor Savage doubt of their eventual victory.

Their dream of freedom and power shatters when the cloaked figure walks towards the throne, challenging Feral’s brother. He has never felt so much fear and horror coming from him—even on Lotho Minor he wasn’t that afraid. There is no doubt in his mind who the man in front of them is.

Feral lets his hatred, his anger and his rage fuel him, forcing them to give the tools he needs to kill the little master.

It’s not enough.

They’re thrown outside the throne room, falling down the steps leading to the palace. Around them, Sundari is silent and apprehensive. Feral begins to believe this may very well be the end.

_What’s it like to be a clan pair?_ he has always wanted to ask Claw and Talon. _What does it feel like to have your half beside you?_

The little master plunges his blades inside him with vicious delight and Feral doesn’t feel anything except the surge of fear coming from Savage. He falls down on the ground like a limp prey.

“Brother, I am an unworthy apprentice,” he tells him, squeezing his hand. Parsecs away, he can feel his Reflection dropping on the ground and gasping. He will never see him. He will never know his name. “I'm not like you. I never was.”

The last thing Feral sees is Savage. Behind him, the mural of Mandalorians vanquishing Jedi stands like an ironic parody of their situation. His brother watches him die, slipping away from him like everything else in his life, stolen by the man who hurt him for so long he knows nothing else now. _I love you, brother,_ Feral wants to say, to tell them both, but the Ichor injected in him seeps out through his markings until there is nothing left but darkness.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> tw: alienation, anxiety, body dysmorphia, character death, dehumanization, dubcon, gore, horror, mental instability, nightmares, panic attacks, noncon (offscreen), trauma
> 
> ᶠᵘⁿ ᵗᶦᵐᵉˢ ᵃˡʳᶦᵍʰᵗ


End file.
